


Invisible Man

by Calais_Reno



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Jealousy, M/M, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-09
Updated: 2018-09-09
Packaged: 2019-07-10 03:48:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15941165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calais_Reno/pseuds/Calais_Reno
Summary: It occurred to John, as he watched Sherlock smile at Victor, that maybe he hadn’t understood anything. He understood that he loved Sherlock, and thought Sherlock felt the same. But what if Sherlock had an entirely different understanding of what they meant to one another?





	Invisible Man

Sherlock was looking at him. _Uncertainty, embarrassment, apprehension._ “I have to go out.”

“A case?” John asked.

“Yes, perhaps.” Sherlock could be secretive, John knew, but when it involved a case, he generally told him the details. Or he flew out of the flat dropping mysterious hints, only to return later and fill him in. Here were no details, no hints. Just an inexplicable look on Sherlock’s face. He’d said he was going out, but didn’t move from his chair. Clearly he wanted to say something, but was afraid of John’s reaction. “A potential client wants to meet with me.”

“But… not _here_ ,” John said. Though clients usually came to Baker Street, there were times when they met in other places — client’s home or business, or perhaps a restaurant. It wasn’t that unusual. Most of the time, though, they went together. Sherlock liked having him there when they met with clients on new cases. Though John wasn’t the best at deducing things about people, he knew how to talk to them in a way that drew the important details out of them without pissing them off.

“I thought it best,” Sherlock said.

“ _You_ thought it best.”

Sherlock nodded, his eyes on the floor. “Yes.”

“There’s something you want to say,” John observed.

“Yes. The client is… someone I know. I think he would prefer not to meet here.”

John was silent. He might have speculated, but speculating about Sherlock’s motives was almost always pointless. If Sherlock wanted him to know, he would say. John could think of no reason why he would want to keep it secret, but certainly he was allowed to meet a client alone, if he wished. He was the detective; John was just a blogger, an assistant whose job it was to examine bodies, ask stupid questions, and express amazement.

“All right,” he said at last. “When are you meeting with… Anonymous?”

“Seven.”

It was half six.

“Okay. I guess I’ll see you later.”

Sherlock nodded but did not move.

John ignored him, trying to focus on his laptop, where he was pretending to tap out a new post for his blog.

Sighing, Sherlock stood and continued studying the floor. “It’s Victor,” he said at last.

“Victor?”

“Victor Trevor. An old… friend. From uni.”

“ _Friend_ ,” said John. He thought about this, what it might mean. Sherlock didn’t have friends. He’d said that many times. _Alone protects me._ He never let people in. _Not a friend_.

Except. John was the exception.

John had always had friends, mates with whom he shared a pint or watched the match. He had friends who confided in him, friends who traded favours with him. People considered him a good friend.

When he moved into Baker Street, he’d thought he and Sherlock might become friends. It only took a few weeks before he’d realised that he’d entirely bypassed friendship. He called him his best friend, but that barely expressed it. He’d had to create an entirely new category of relationships to explain where Sherlock fit, and it wasn’t until months had passed that he’d realised he’d gotten it wrong. They hadn’t become friends. He’d fallen in love with Sherlock.

Sherlock didn’t have friends. He had John.

But he’d called Victor _an old friend._ Then… what? _Lovers?_

The look on Sherlock’s face told him he had guessed correctly. He knew that Sherlock was no virgin. There must have been others before John, friends-but-not-friends who had their own categories. But they didn’t talk about it.

And so, Victor Trevor. A ghost from the past. And Sherlock didn’t want John along.

“You’re uncomfortable that I’m meeting him alone,” Sherlock deduced.

John paused, knowing that Sherlock was deducing the pause itself. Was he jealous? Suspicious? Worried? Should he pretend to be unconcerned, knowing that Sherlock could certainly deduce his concern? Should he insist on going, knowing that he had no reason to think—

“Come with me,” Sherlock said.

“Why?” John asked.

“You’re concerned. I don’t want you to feel I’m hiding anything.”

“I trust you,” John said. He imagined how awkward it might be to sit for several hours listening to Sherlock and a former lover discussing their past. As if he didn’t exist. _Oh, he was definitely going_. He just needed Sherlock to insist. Let it be on him. That way, when it all went wrong, it would not be John’s fault.

“You’re my… my…” Sherlock grappled for the right word. They hadn’t exactly discussed terms yet. It was still terribly new, this _more than friends_ category they’d fallen into. They might be partners, or lovers, or boyfriends. People did use those words to describe a relationship involving sex, but the two of them were, as they’d always been, uncomfortable discussing such things. Talking about it involved short, unfinished sentences, awkward pauses, and sometimes nervous giggles.

He hadn’t anticipated feeling jealous. He had imagined the awkwardness the other way around: introducing Sherlock to a former lover, Sherlock feeling insecure. He hadn’t imagined himself as the jealous party whilst Sherlock flaunted a former lover in his face.

“We’re together,” Sherlock concluded. “He will not be surprised that I have a… a…”

“Boyfriend?” John suggested.

“Well, we’re hardly boys,” Sherlock replied. “ _Partner_ , perhaps.”

“How about _lover_?” John said. “Call it what it is. We’re not just sharing a bank account. We’re having sex. Quite a lot of sex.”

“Of course. I simply do not want to embarrass you.”

“Embarrass me?” he said, feeling his ire rise. “Why would I be embarrassed to be introduced as the lover of Sherlock Holmes?”

“I didn’t mean it that way. He’s a stranger to you, and we are relatively new to this… relationship. I didn’t want to expose you to scrutiny, if you do not wish—”

“I’m not ashamed,” John said. “Let him scrutinise. Let anyone. Are you ashamed?”

“Of course not,” Sherlock replied quickly. “Don’t put words in my mouth, John. Whatever Victor may have been to me, I am not ashamed to present you to him as my lover.”

“Good,” said John. “Because it looked like you were uncomfortable sharing that information.”

“We need to go, if we’re to be on time,” Sherlock said.

 

John sulked in the cab. He didn’t like what he was wearing. Sherlock, as always, looked posh and gorgeous, while John, with little time to change, looked unremarkable and ordinary. This Victor had known Sherlock back when they were at Cambridge. John had seen pictures of Sherlock in his late teens and early twenties: pale, gothic, those gorgeous eyes, that romantic hair. And he still drew admiring looks, both from women and men, even in his thirties. John was pushing forty now. Sometimes he was shocked to see an old man in the mirror, looking back at him. He was weathered by his years in Afghanistan, no longer as muscular as he had been, worn thin by his war injuries. At moments like this, his limp reappeared, making him look several years older than the calendar showed. He wondered why he’d thought this was a good idea. Victor would look at him and look at Sherlock, and he would think: _what is Sherlock doing with this old man?_

“Look,” he said to Sherlock. “Maybe you’re right. You should meet him alone. I’ll just be in the way.”

“I don’t want to meet him alone,” Sherlock said. “Problem?”

Problem, yes. _You’re bloody gorgeous. All he has to do is look at you to see that it was a mistake to let you go. And he’ll make a play for you. Because, why wouldn’t he?_

 _Might as well just accept that it’s going to happen, Watson. Bloody gorgeous Victor will take one look at your sorry self, see his opportunity, and seduce Sherlock out from under your nose._ John sighed, but kept his mouth shut.

Sherlock flushed a bit. “John, this isn’t a date. We’re meeting to discuss a potential case. I’m sure he has no interest in me beyond my professional abilities.”

John wanted to believe this, but Sherlock didn’t possess enough self-awareness to understand his own attractiveness. He never noticed how people looked at him. He might still see himself as an awkward, unattractive teenager, but he had become a striking man. Next to the pedigreed poshness that was Sherlock, John always felt a bit like a mutt.

“It's fine,” he said. “Not a date.”

The restaurant was unfamiliar to John. Not fancy or elegant, but one of those places that gains exclusivity by word of mouth. He was not underdressed, he found as he checked out the other diners, but he felt wrong, out of place, in his khakis and a suede jacket. He knew how to dress for a date, but this wasn’t a date. What was it? _An interview_ , he supposed. He tried to pretend they were meeting a client, like any other client, over dinner.

Victor met them at the door. God, he was tall, even taller than Sherlock. Probably six-three, John thought. Tall and blond and good-looking. Athletic. Probably played rugby at uni.

“And this is John Watson,” Sherlock said, concluding the introductions. He’d managed to by-pass the entire _friend/lover/partner_ issue, John noticed.

“Ah, of course. The blogger,” Victor said, his large hand wrapping around John’s smaller one. “I’m a _big_ fan.” He held John’s hand a few seconds too long. _Manipulative. Condescending._

A host led them to their table. John felt warm, overdressed. He could feel himself starting to perspire, not the sweat of exertion, but the sharp sweat of nerves. He wished he'd carried on going to the gym when his physiotherapy had ended. His body felt alien, uncoordinated, as if it were preparing to embarrass him by tripping or knocking glasses over or dropping silverware.

Victor had a bottle of wine brought to the table, but invited them to order whatever they wanted to drink. John ordered a scotch on the rocks. Sherlock, never a big drinker, had bottled water.

He listened as they talked about uni, mentioning people they both knew, laughing over stories they recalled. Sherlock would then turn to John and explain. He began to feel the way he used to feel as a boy, visiting relatives in Glasgow, hearing them chatter away in Gaelic. He understood enough to catch the drift of what they were talking about, but felt completely foreign. That was how it was, listening to Victor and Sherlock talk. There had clearly been some intimacy between them, the way Victor leaned towards Sherlock when he talked, the way he touched Sherlock’s hand when he laughed at something Victor said.

And Sherlock was smiling, social, comfortable in a way that John had never seen. Not that they went to many social events, but that was because Sherlock hated polite small talk. He didn’t do _nice._ When they had to attend an event, John was always the hand on his arm, the voice in his ear: _Not good._ _Be nice._

John didn’t know who this Sherlock was. He felt his tension steadily climbing with each look, each touch. There was nothing over the line in the way the two men were acting, but he’d never seen Sherlock with a _friend_ before. Sherlock didn’t have friends. He felt his blood pounding in his ears.

“John!” Sherlock pulled out his handkerchief. “Your nose is bleeding.”

He pressed the cloth to his nose and saw bright red. “Excuse me,” he said, slipping out of his chair. “Loo.”

In the loo, he felt slightly dizzy, but there was no place to sit. He leaned over the sink, squeezing his nose, breathing through his mouth. He could not remember the last time he’d had a nosebleed. When he was a boy, perhaps. Certainly never at dinner with a client.

“You all right?” Another bloke was washing his hands, looking curiously at him.

“Fine,” he said. It was all fine, he supposed. There was blood on his shirt and tie and even a drop on his jacket. Using a paper towel, he tried to blot the suede, finally managing to make it fade to pink. Against the tan leather, it wasn’t glaringly obvious. The tie was a lost cause. He pulled it off and put it in his pocket. His shirt, unfortunately was light blue. He looked as if he’d been in a fight — clearly the loser. Perhaps he could use his serviette to cover up during dinner.

Unless he developed explosive diarrhoea as well, he could not imagine how things could get any worse.

Thinking about this made his stomach clench. Normally John’s system could handle anything. Right now, though, he wasn’t sure he could eat without throwing up.

He’d been gone almost fifteen minutes, he estimated as he walked back towards the table. What he saw made his ears begin to pound again. Victor had his hand on Sherlock’s arm, his mouth near his ear. His expression was clearly lascivious. John couldn’t read lips, but imagined him saying, _Let’s ditch your little blogger and go back to my place._ He couldn’t see Sherlock’s face; he had his back to John. Why was he letting Victor touch him? Anyone seeing them would think they were a couple. Even to John’s eyes, they looked like they belonged together. Two posh, gorgeous men with the physiques to be modelling underwear. He imagined them in their underwear, Victor looking at Sherlock like he wanted to rip off his pants.

It wasn’t the calm, reasonable doctor, but the soldier who reacted to the threat. As he arrived at the table, he growled, “Get your fucking hands off my boy.”

Sherlock frowned at him. Victor laughed. “Well, Holmes, you’ve got yourself a pit bull, haven’t you?” But he removed his hand.

“All right, John?” Sherlock said.

He nodded tersely and slid into his seat, feeling his face flush and smelling his own sweat.

Salads had come and gone. The main course arrived. John’s steak was overdone, but he said nothing. Victor and Sherlock had ordered fish, both of them exclaiming at the preparation and sending compliments to the chef. John ordered another scotch.

Maybe he should have been taking notes, he thought. That was what he always did when they interviewed clients. He should have been asking questions at least, but he couldn’t figure out what Sherlock was looking for, what they were supposed to be investigating. And he found that he didn’t much care.

Victor was smooth, a strategic conversationalist. He focused his attention on Sherlock, occasionally asking John questions just to be polite.

“A military man, then?” Victor said.

“Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.”

“You were wounded. I’m sorry, perhaps I’m being rude. I noticed your limp earlier.”

John directed all of his telepathy towards Sherlock. _Please don’t say it’s psychosomatic._

“Yes. I’m fine, though. Recovered.”

“Well, that’s good.” He smiled. “Sherlock, you’re making quite a name for yourself. John, did you know that I was Sherlock’s first case? It was my father, really…”

Sherlock had not told him. Victor recounted the entire story of his father’s blackmailers and how Sherlock had figured it out. John said nothing.

Victor nudged Sherlock. “Strong, silent type, isn’t he? I didn’t know you preferred a man of few words. I used to talk your ear off.”

The waiter removed their plates. “Would you like me to box up the rest of your steak?” he asked John.

“No, thank you.”

The waiter frowned. “Was it all right?”

 _Just go away. Stop asking me questions._ “It was fine. I’m just not as hungry as I thought.”

Sherlock began to ask Victor about his business. Apparently he was an importer of something. Wine maybe. He and Sherlock spoke in French over coffee and dessert. John had taken French in school. He couldn’t remember a word of it. He couldn’t remember his own name by the time the waiter brought the check. Victor paid.

They walked out to the street.

“We’ll have to do this again, Sherlock,” Victor said. He cast a meaningful look at John, but did not speak to him. “I’m in London at least once a month.”

“You have my number,” Sherlock said. “John, hail a cab for us.”

He limped to the kerb and raised his hand, knowing that no cab was going to stop. He glanced back to where the two men were standing, Victor now with his arm around Sherlock’s shoulder, mouth close to his ear, probably setting up something more intimate for later.

All at once, he knew what was going to happen. It was inevitable after an evening like this, where every little thing had gone wrong. A cab would pull up, and Sherlock would motion for him to get in. _You go ahead. I’ll be a while._ And John would take his bloody, sweaty, angry self home. He wouldn’t be able to sleep. He’d just sit on the couch with a glass of scotch and worry and wait. Maybe he’d drink more, drink until he passed out. Eventually, Sherlock would return. And John would not know what to say because they never talked about things like this. _More than friends…_ What did that even mean?

And it occurred to John, as he watched Sherlock smile at Victor, that maybe he hadn’t understood anything. He understood that he loved Sherlock, and thought Sherlock felt the same. But what if Sherlock had an entirely different understanding of what they meant to one another? He didn’t have friends. _Married to his work_ , he’d said once, a long time ago. How would a man without friends understand love? Was it a convenience, having a ready sex partner? Was it manipulative, having someone who would do anything for him? Was it an experiment?

John was an idiot. He’d stumbled his way into this relationship, and he was just now realising that they needed to talk. But talking wasn’t what he and Sherlock did, ever. They never talked, not about things like this. Occasionally they argued, but that was usually because Sherlock had been rude to a witness or left body parts in the bathtub or hadn’t told John something he needed to know. They were two British blokes who didn’t talk about emotions. They knew how to spend hours together without a word spoken, enjoying companionable silence, but they didn’t know how to say what they felt.

Cabs weren’t stopping. Nothing new. John Watson had never managed to hail a cab in his entire life. On the kerb, he was always the invisible man. All Sherlock had to do was walk towards the street with intent, and cabs would screech to a halt. John had given up on cabs a long time ago. He took the bus or the underground.

It was starting to rain. John’s suede jacket began soaking it up like a sponge. 

Exasperated, he turned back to where Sherlock was still talking with Victor. They were standing under the restaurant’s canopy, hugging now, a bro-hug that apparently included an arse-squeeze. John felt his entire ego dripping down into the gutter. He stopped trying for a cab, just stood in the rain, drenched by the consequences of things he hadn’t asked, hadn’t said.

Sherlock appeared at his side, raised his hand, and a cab pulled up to the kerb instantly.

“You’re wet,” he said.

John nodded sadly. “Yes. It’s raining.”

They slid into the cab. Sherlock pulled out another clean handkerchief. _How many clean handkerchiefs does he carry? Who even carries handkerchiefs?_ Sliding closer, he began wiping the moisture from John’s face. “Thank you for coming with me.”

It felt intimate, being wiped by Sherlock. He thought of the previous night in bed when Sherlock had used a flannel to clean them off. There had been many moments, over the course of their relationship, where one of them had taken care of the other. He’d stitched Sherlock up, or Sherlock had brought him a cup of tea when he was sick, helped up the stairs when his leg hurt. There had always been that intimacy of small touches. Even now, when they could still count the times they’d had sex on the fingers of one hand, such touches were frequent.

But right now, soaked to the skin and unhappy, it made John feel like he was going to cry. Of course, Sherlock would take care of him, even continue to have sex with him. What John had mistaken for love was merely familiarity. Sherlock was a man of habits, and John had become one of them. But Victor…

“Did you love him?” he asked, turning his head to look out the window. He blinked, willing his tears back into their ducts.

Sherlock was watching his reflection in the glass. “I thought so. At the time. I suppose I was an idiot.”

“Do you…” He trailed off, unable to finish. _Do you love me?_ He wondered if he could bear to hear the answer.

“I don’t love him.” He put his hand on John’s face, turning it towards him, and wiped John’s eyes.

 _It’s just rain. Not crying._ “What was the case?”

Sherlock smiled. “No case.”

“Then why did you ask me to go with you?”

“To show him. I wanted him to see you.”

John gave a short laugh. “Your pit bull?”

“He’s not half the man you are, John.”

“No, he’s twice the man. I was going to hit him when he was touching your arse, but you probably would have had to scrape me off the sidewalk.”

Sherlock laughed. “You’ve taken down men bigger than you.”

“I should have stayed home. I embarrassed you.”

“You did not. I wanted you there. He’s been pushing for six months to see me, since he returned from Australia, and I made an excuse every time. You know how much I hate socialising. We were lovers, it’s true, but that was a long time ago. And now… he’s a swine, and I was afraid he’d turn up somewhere unexpectedly, maybe at the flat or even at a crime scene. And I didn’t want you to feel blind-sided. I wanted him to see that I’ve moved on, and that I have someone. I’m not alone, as he predicted I would be when he broke off with me. Selfish, perhaps, to have subjected you to an evening with him, but…”

“He said you’d end up alone?”

“I believed him, once. I was naive, and socially inept. He took advantage of me, left when he got tired of me. That’s the short version. Someday I’ll tell you the rest, but I don’t feel like talking about him anymore tonight.” He looked at John with concern. “Unless… are there things you want to ask?”

John gaped at him. “How could he get tired of you? You’re… brilliant, fascinating…”

“Not everyone finds me so interesting,” Sherlock said. “He was always popular, and kept me around as a foil. That’s the kind of person he is, very concerned with appearances, surrounding himself with admirers, people he thinks less valuable than himself.”

The cab arrived at Baker Street, Sherlock got out, paid the driver, and held the door for John. Putting his arm around John, he walked him towards the door. “You’ve been limping tonight,” he said as he fitted the key in the door. “Are you in pain?”

“A bit.” He winced as he climbed the stairs, wishing he were in his chair with a cup of tea.

As if he’d read John’s mind, Sherlock helped him out of his wet jacket and hung it up, and then filled the kettle.

“Let’s get you out of those wet clothes,” he said, beginning to unbutton John’s shirt. “Blue is your best colour,” he observed. “Mrs Hudson can get the blood out of this.”

John finished undressing and got into the shower Sherlock had started for him. He stood under the water for a long time, trying to erase the evening. He kept seeing Victor’s face, that handsome, superior face, leering at John Watson as if he were a mistake.

He put on his pyjamas and a dressing gown and shuffled into the kitchen.

“Sit,” said Sherlock, placing a cup of tea in his hands.

Sighing, John sat at the table. He closed his eyes. “I wish… I wish I hadn’t been so awkward tonight. I know I’m not handsome or brilliant, but usually I can manage to clean up decently so I don’t look like a bloody fool.”

Sherlock smiled. “You were bloody, or at least your nose was, but you were definitely not a fool. He got the message.”

“What message?”

“That you’re a better man. You’re loyal and strong and unafraid. And whatever you may think, you are handsome and — occasionally — brilliant.” He leaned over and kissed John. “I love you.”

“You’ve never said that before,” John whispered.

“True. Perhaps I should have made that clear to you before we went to dinner, but you know me. I’m not adept with feelings. So I decided to show you. I chose you, not him. I’m a bit surprised that you were even jealous.”

“You let him touch you. By the end of the evening, he had his hand on your arse.”

“I’m sorry.” Sherlock settled into the chair next to him. “I shouldn’t have let that happen. Victor has always been… a bit of a bully. When I was younger, I was bullied quite a lot. Over time, I learned to stand up for myself. But tonight, I didn’t know how to handle it. I’m not good at social cues and thought I might be overreacting. I didn’t want to make a scene. I suppose I was hoping… that you would do that for me.” He grinned. “When you returned to the table and told him off, I wanted to kiss you.”

“I would have punched his lights out, but I didn’t want to embarrass you.”

“You could never embarrass me, John.”

John rinsed his mug, wiped it out and hung it on its hook. “I need to tell you something.” All the words he’d thought of were flying out of his brain. All but three. “I love you.”

“I know.” Sherlock pulled him into his lap. He looked a bit smug.

“How? I never said it.”

“I deduced it.”

“I thought you weren’t adept at feelings,” John said. “When did you deduce this?”

“When you were trying to hail a cab, you turned and looked at me. The look in your eyes was something I knew, having experienced it myself. I felt it the first time I saw Victor with someone else. I felt it whenever you introduced me to one of your girlfriends.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I was an idiot. I never knew it bothered you. Didn’t think you wanted that.”

Sherlock shook his head. “My fault. I didn’t think I did want it. After Victor… until I knew you, I was sure I was better off without that. I was wrong.”

“So we’re in love,” John said. “Will that change everything?”

“I doubt it. We’ll take cases, argue sometimes, spend evenings saying not a word because we don't need to talk to understand one another. We’ll make love, and wake up together, and I’ll forget to buy the milk, and you’ll get mad about my experiments, and we’ll get takeout when we’re too tired to make dinner.”

“That’s it?” John asked. “Nothing changes?”

“What will be different,” Sherlock said, “is that it will all be sweeter. I’ll hold your hand when we walk places, and I’ll kiss you when I tell you I’m sorry about the milk. Instead of sulking about the thumbs in the refrigerator, you’ll call me a mad bugger and kiss my forehead. And every day we’ll get older, but we won’t mind because we have each other to grow old with.”

“That sounds… good,” John said. “So. Are there any more _old friends_ lurking out there, waiting to invite you to dinner?”

Sherlock kissed him. “No. You’ve met them all. And I think I can safely put him in the category of _ex-friends._ ” He gave John’s leg a squeeze. “Thank you for understanding. Now, let’s go to bed. I’ve heard that jealousy is a good aphrodisiac. Shall we see if that’s true?”


End file.
